You wake in the molt of a nightmare. It's scattered around your body, bleeding a chemical pattern onto the sheets like a murder-line and you curl in on yourself before you remember that there's another body next to yours. Perhaps, you think, if you were good enough last year and all the years before that, he'll take away the real pain that fiction inflicted.
You're late. You hate being late. You leap-frog your way through the Tokyo subway system, your face tilted down into your phone-- you no longer need to look up to check the glowing signs overhead in certain parts of the city.
He comes up from behind you as you approach the statue of lost masters. At six feet, he's towering a scant inch above you, red stubble lining the sides of his jaws. His lips part.
You talk. You have to shift language gears, get used to his particular semantics, and do it quickly before the barrier of a shared language differently used becomes a frustrating turn-off. You feel your brain actively rewiring, turning knobs, adjusting frequencies at a rapid pace.
It takes almost forty minutes of fine-tuning before those boundaries collide and mesh but when they do, it's so smooth.
And then you want.
Errands in Shibuya, roaming a rabbit warren of streets. Sushi. You sit as if a mirror: thigh-hip-shoulder-shudderstroke. His heat bleeds through the layers of clothes that separate you.
And you want.
He's smart. He's just enough of a nerd to calm you, but not so much that you fear the mundane. Not that you can fear much of anything from the company of a man who has an expiration date that matches that of a gallon of milk.
In the elevator, it's easy. Normally you go for stairs, but without a line an elevator is timed test-drive of lips and the strength of a man's grip. And what he will grip. Hips, ass, and head are best-- breasts show a lack of sexual maturity, crotch shows a lack of foreplay and a belief that orgasm is the most important factor of sex.
He's good. Timing is precise, and touch is so, so warm and tuned in. Do we have a sensualist? The ride back down confirms.
And you want.
You were, before you met him, nervous about the love hotel bit. Something you wanted to do, yes, but with a known quantity, which he was not. A new experience with a new partner in that vein, with the social associations that come with it... means you might end up with a view of yourself you may not care for.
But you want.
He chooses Hotel Diamond, room 205.
Your head is spinning. You were at a club until almost 5 o'clock that morning. Combine that with the jet-lag and you're feeling the buzz that accompanies a couple shots of vodka. Bad judgments able to be made without guilt-- at least in that moment. (Congratulations, you make it through the night without committing any regrettable errors.)
He moves you. It's not perfect, but it's already so far down that path that it's only a matter of time and exposure. That feeling of entwining with someone, winding two bodies into one... it's what you so desperately search for, then forget you're looking because you go so very long without it, you can't even remember what it felt like.
You wonder if your current partner knows how rare this is. You wonder if it excites him as much as it excites you.
And then you stop thinking entirely because he's in you.
You take the subway back to your hotel in the silver seat of Tokyo.
He's coming with you, and you're relieved. You don't mention it to him-- you know how emotionally unstable you are right now and you know exactly how that would come off. And you also know exactly how unlikely it would be for him to be the kind of guy who is a rescuer of damsels in that sort of emotional distress. You've heard those sweet words before, placating-- like you're some sort of feral creature that needs to be cautiously edged away from.
But it's been so lonely out here. Yes, you've spent time with friends or had meetings with people who are becoming friends nearly every day, but each night you're back at your hotel room, fighting off the anxiety of feeling adrift, floating farther out in a black-topped sea.
You used to be so good at this.
You will be again. It's just the jet-lag. It's just the workload.
You take the elevator up to the eleventh floor, room 1107.
He's still with you. You slide your card into the lock and open the door. You're still so looped out of your brain.
The sex. Jesus. The sex was amazing. All you want to do is talk to this guy for hours and fuck. And fuck more. And spend the entire day rejoicing in a body that touches like his. Because you know too well the value of this. And because you know the second he walks out that door and gets on his train, there's a chance he's not coming back and you, you won't get to experience this again. Ever.
Sex is all about the mix of two elements. Meaning that Michael and Sally can have sex and spend the next morning wondering how they found such a boring lay, but Michael and Daisy can have sex and accidentally die from being too distracted in their mutual pleasure that they forget to eat.
And it doesn't matter how long you sleep with someone, how much you teach them about their body and your own, it will never match that perfect mix you might find with a one-night stand.
Supply and demand.
And you demand.
He lays next to you on the bed. White sheets. Pale skin. Red hair. Freckles. Blue cat-eyes. Slight upwards tilt, something you've always wanted from your own eyes. You used to pull the corners up when you looked in the mirror in elementary school, wishing you were more exotic, more feline.
It's the eyes that do it. You look at them and realize that this is going to hurt. If you see him again. And the more you see him, the more it will hurt.
It'll be a stinging slap-- the two week expiration date nearly guarantees it can't be much more-- and you're okay with that. Maybe it'll be a fantasy you tell yourself when you're back stateside: that you're not a matchless freak, that someone could love you, because there's a guy on the other side of the world that just might have been a romantic partner if there weren't thousands of miles between you.
Or maybe it's not just a fantasy. Maybe he could be someone for you.
You are never going to find out.
You're going to fly back to Los Angeles and hope you cry when you go. Because tears mean that maybe, if you were good enough last year and all the years before that, just maybe someone will have reached through all the layers, boundaries, and offensive maneuvers and shown you that you could love again. That you haven't constructed walls so high they've blended into the landscape entirely, shutting out the possibility of sky.
And even if you have, there's no way of fully knowing. Not in this scenario. Which makes it completely safe-- you can read into it like dream analysis or tea leaves, seeing only what you want.
And you want.
Created: Mar 22, 2014LoveSonnet Document Media